CHAPTER 18: CHAPTER 18: THE FIRST TIME IT WASN’T NICKI

Evric’s POV

The moment I walked in, I saw him.

He strolled into the bar like he owned the air in the room. Tall, fine, effortlessly classic in how his shirt hugged his chest. Even from afar, I could see the sharp cut of his jaw, the quiet intensity on his face as he sat down at the bar counter and ordered a drink. Alone, untouched, and unbothered.

And utterly captivating.

I kept watching him.

Then my assistant arrived at Mr Karl, sliding into the seat across from me. He greeted me casually and took a sip from my drink.

"You come here often?" I asked, my eyes never leaving Zayn’s direction.

"He replied, sometimes. It’s one of those quiet spots."

I leaned in. "What about that guy at the counter? The tall one in the black shirt?"

He turned to glance subtly. "I don’t know him. He’s not a regular."

I frowned. "Find someone who does. Or at least someone who’s seen him before."

Then, as I waited, I caught a conversation from the next table. A guy was admiring Zayn, his eyes practically drinking him in. But then the girl with him scoffed.

"Better not," she said, sipping her cocktail. "That one? Nothing satisfies him. He’s... complicated." Moreover, he’s straight.

Curiosity burned in my chest. I waved over one of the bartenders. He walked closer to my table, and I said, "Hey, the guy at the counter. Do you know anything about him?"

The man hesitated, clearly weighing loyalty over gossip.

But a small tip from my assistant loosened his tongue.

"He answered, he’s not here often. Maybe once or twice. Doesn’t talk much. Only into women, as far as we know." He paused, then added, "Every woman that’s been with him? Never lasted. They all say the same thing: no one ever satisfies his pleasure."

Pleasure. That word hung in the air like a dare.

I let the bartender go and turned to my assistant. "Make it happen."

"What?"

"Get him to come to me. Set something up. A hotel, close by."

He blinked. "What if he doesn’t come? You heard them. He’s straight. What if he finds out he’s walking into a room with a man?"

I looked him dead in the eyes. "Then make sure he knows. I don’t want games. Let him walk in fully aware."

After that, I got in the car with my driver. We headed to the hotel Mr Karl arranged, my heart pounding harder than I expected. Part excitement. Part nerves.

But mostly... desire.

Because ever since Nicki and I broke apart, Zayn was the first man who caught my eye, not just for how he looked, but for the storm he seemed to carry with him.

And maybe, just maybe, I was ready to walk straight into that storm.

Mr. Karl handled it.

He approached him and said it straight, someone was interested in him. He ensured he knew it wasn’t a woman calling but a man. And that there was money involved if he was willing.

He scoffed. "You think I need money?"

But Karl didn’t flinch. He gave the kind of answer that only someone who understands human weakness would give. "No. But he thinks you need satisfaction."

That was all it took. That’s how Karl got him to consider.

"I have two assistants. Mr Karl is my older assistant. James is around my age, I call on James when I need something simple done. But Mr Karl is different."

He’s been working for me since my time abroad. He knows how to handle me when I’m stormy. He doesn’t talk too much, doesn’t ask too many questions, and he just does what needs to be done. I trust him in ways I don’t trust most people anymore.

Especially people around my age. Not since Nicki shattered what was left of my heart. Keeping younger people too close... sometimes it feels like danger. Like betrayal waiting to happen.

That night, I needed someone who understood how to handle things quietly and smoothly. And Karl did just that.

The moment Zayn stepped into the room, something shifted inside me.

I didn’t know what I was expecting when I left the house that night. All I knew was that I was tired of waiting. I was tired of hiding behind the walls I’d built. I’m tired of pretending that Nicki’s ghost wasn’t still haunting every part of me. I wanted something to feel again. I didn’t care what it was.

He walked in like he had nothing to lose, all sharp lines and slow steps, wearing confidence like a tailored suit. His eyes met mine and lingered dark, searching, hungry. For the first time in over four years, my body didn’t freeze. It responded.

The air was hot the moment we were alone. His breath. My silence. The tension between us could’ve set the walls on fire.

I thought I’d lost the ability to want like this. But that night, it came back in a wave so heavy I had to steady myself.

I wanted him.

Not just to fuck.

I wanted to dominate him. Possess him. Ruin him for anyone else.

I could’ve had him right then, could’ve pressed him against the wall, wrapped his legs around my waist, and made him cry out my name until his voice broke. But I didn’t.

Because I made a promise to myself: I wouldn’t touch anyone until it was real.

I’d broken once before.

I couldn’t survive another collapse.

So I looked at Zayn at those lips, soft and parted, waiting and I said, low and firm, "I won’t touch you. I’ll only use my voice."

He stared at me like I was joking. Then he laughed. "What kind of game is that?"

He was stubborn at first. He tried to walk out. But I stopped him, with nothing but my tone, my gaze and he stayed. He listened. To every word. Every command. And he obeyed.

In the past, I had to dig deep into memories of Nicki just to activate my voice, to speak with control or seduction. I couldn’t function without his ghost lurking behind every breath I took.

But that night with Zayn... it was different.

For the first time, I wasn’t drawing power from pain. I wasn’t pretending. I wasn’t haunted. I said what I wanted, what I felt and it came from me.

And he followed.

I watched him. Hard as steel. My body burned with the need to take him, to lose myself inside him. I was so close. Just a few steps and it would’ve happened.

But I didn’t.

I leaned forward, but didn’t touch him.

My voice dropped another octave. "Take off your shirt."

He blinked. Hesitated.

"Now," I added, my gaze not breaking his.

And slowly, very slowly, his hands moved. Fingers found the hem of his tee, lifting it inch by inch, exposing golden skin and tight muscle. I watched the line of his abs flex as he pulled it over his head and dropped it to the floor.

I didn’t move.

"Undo your pants."

His breath hitched, but he obeyed, his belt clinking softly in the silence. He slid the zipper down, revealing the dark line of his briefs, already hard underneath.

"You’re turned on already?" I asked with a smirk.

"I don’t know what this is," he murmured, eyes locked on mine, "but it’s working."

"Good," I said.

I walked a slow circle around him, hands behind my back. He kept still, his chest rising and falling, waiting for a touch that never came.

I stopped behind him. Leaned close, lips near his ear.

"I’m going to make you cum with nothing but words," I whispered. "No hands. No mouth. No skin on skin."

He shivered. "You’re insane."

"Maybe," I said. "But you’re still standing here."

He said nothing.

"Take your briefs off."

He obeyed. Now fully naked, sitting in the center of the room like a statue carved for desire.

I circled back to face him. He was already leaking, his cock twitching, desperate.

But I kept my distance.

"Lie back on the couch. Legs spread."

He did. And fuck, the view...

My voice went lower, quieter, dripping with heat. "Wrap your hand around your cock."

He gasped as he touched himself.

"Slow strokes," I said. "No rushing. I’ll tell you when you can cum."

His hand moved, up and down, eyes never leaving mine. I watched every breath, every pulse in his throat, every whimper he tried to hold back.

"You’re not allowed to close your eyes," I said. "I want to see you fall apart."

He nodded, mouth trembling.

"You feel that ache?" I asked. "That burn just under your skin?"

"Yes," he groaned.

"That’s mine," I told him. "That pleasure... that desperation... it belongs to me now."

His hips bucked.

"Slower."

He whimpered, slowing his strokes, sweat beginning to bead along his collarbones.

I moved to sit, legs crossed, far enough not to touch, close enough for him to feel the weight of my presence.

"Tell me what you’re feeling," I commanded.

"Hot," he gasped. "So fucking hot. I want more."

"You want my hand on you?"

"Yes."

"You want my mouth?"

"Yes, please..."

"Too bad," I said. "You’re only getting my voice."

He moaned, hips stuttering.

"I can make you lose your mind with nothing but words. I don’t need to touch you. You’ll cum for me anyway. Because your body listens to me now, not you."

He whimpered louder, head tipping back, mouth falling open.

"Keep stroking. Imagine it’s me. Imagine I’m on top of you, whispering filth into your ear while you beg me to let you cum."

His breath caught. "Please..."

"Not yet."

I stood. Walked over, slow as sin, and leaned down. Still no touch.

"You’re beautiful like this," I whispered. "All needy and desperate, undone just by my voice."

His hand moved faster.

"Now," I said. "Now you can cum for me."

And he did.

Hard, loud, and violent.

His whole body shook as he spilled over his hand, I watched every second. Drank it in like it was the first rainfall after a drought.

I still didn’t touch him.